


Home(less)

by GoodJanet



Category: Late Night Host RPF
Genre: Birthday Presents, Camping, Dystopia, Fluff and Angst, Hiding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Running Away, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodJanet/pseuds/GoodJanet
Summary: It is November 28, 2020, and all liberal or non-partisan journalists and reporters have been fired, jailed, deported and/or killed. Jon and Stephen are on the run together, but Stephen wants to stop and celebrate Jon's birthday.





	

It’s not even dawn. In fact, Stephen sees nothing but greys and blues through the fabric of their tent. It was about time to move again; that was what they had agreed upon last night. It wouldn’t do to stay in one place for too long, especially not when they had already evaded capture for this long. Today was as good a day as any to pack up and move on. Still, there was one thing Stephen wanted to do before heading out…

Stephen watches Jon wake up. When his eyes finally open they look like steel in the pre-dawn light. Jon comes out of his sleepy stupor quickly, and Stephen has to remind himself not to kiss him.

“Morning,” Jon croaks.

“Happy birthday, Jon. I got you something!”

“Stephen, you didn’t. You don’t have to do that.”

Stephen scoots closer to Jon in his sleeping bag and reaches his hand out over the top. Jon’s hand peeks out too. They clasp hands in the freezing cold of their tent which they’ve kept hidden in these woods since August.

“ _How?_ ” Jon asks.

He knows he shouldn’t be surprised though. If anyone could pull off a gift of any kind during a time like this, it would be Stephen. Stephen gives a breathy exhale that’s almost a laugh, and Jon thinks that that’s gift enough.

“I’ve been saving it for a rainy day.”

Jon sits up out of curiosity.

“Colbert, if you’re telling me that you’ve had an umbrella all this time and didn’t saying anything, I’ll scream.”

“I wish,” Stephen says. “It’s just a little something I’ve been holding on to.”

Stephen lets go of Jon’s hand and sits up. Jon misses the warmth and the connection. They don’t see a lot of people these. Not since the news networks were declared “yellow journalism” and taken off the air. Stephen is pulling things out of his bag as Jon suddenly remembers how frighteningly similar John’s actual deportation was to Trevor’s parody. He always had a sinking suspicion that John was not even sent back to England because no one had seen or heard from him in years.

Stephen turns back around, and his smile falls off his face. The small object he’s holding in his hands falls into his lap as he moves himself closer to Jon. He puts a steadying hand on Jon’s shoulder and the other on his cheek.

“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?”

Jon is visibly embarrassed. Stephen can feel his cheek heat under his palm.

“No, no, nothing. Sorry. I’m fine.”

Now Jon won’t meet his gaze. A stick breaks outside their tent, and their heads snap in the direction of the sound. A squirrel makes a chirping noise, and they relax again.

“Tell me. It’s okay, Jon,” Stephen urges.

“I was, uh. I was thinkin’ about John. Again. That broadcast—”

Jon chokes up, and Stephen doesn’t push him. He remembers that moment well.

_“Did my producers put you up to this? You’re not really ICE.”_

_He looked nervous, but his voice was steady. John sought out his producers on the floor. A cameraman had been wise enough to record their reactions. They looked as baffled and bewildered by the men in riot gear as John did._

_“Come with us,” one said._

_“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John said._

_“Move!” another yelled._

_A baton had elongated in his hand in front of their very eyes. John stood up._

_“This is not a bit!” John yelled into the camera. “This is not a bit!”_

_One of the goons smashed his torso into his desk and yanked his arms behind his chest. John’s glasses went flying. By this point, the audience had caught on, and noises of protest and dismay were starting to build._

_John protested all the while._

_“This is **not** normal. This is your government now. This not—!”_

_A third man kicked him in the back of the legs, causing him to grunt in pain and cutting off his speech. Once cuffed, two men forced him to stand upright._

_“Let’s get him out of here,” the first man said._

_They dragged him off-stage to boos and screams._

_“This is the work Donald Tr—!”_

_Before he could get the word out, the man with the baton raised it at the camera and smashed it._

The broadcast had ended there. No one had heard from him since.

“We don’t know what happened. We can’t worry about what we don’t know.”

It sounds like bullshit even to Stephen’s ears, but he knows it’s what Jon needs to hear and remember to stay sane. Jon was one of those abnormal people who loved and cared about everyone he knew, and not knowing John’s status or whereabouts was driving him crazy.

Jon digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and says, “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting this pressure on you to, like, take care of me or something. I should--I should be able to do this on my own by now. I’m 58, for god’s sake!”

“You’re right. It’s you’re birthday. And that means sleeping in and breakfast in bed, right?”

Jon cracks a brave smile. He never could help himself around Stephen.

“Right.”

“Well, this is for you!”

Stephen proudly hands Jon a tied up red bandanna. It even has a little heft to it.

“We really are hobos, aren’t we?”

“You can make your own bindle out of that. Aren’t you going to open it?”

Jon undoes the loose knot. Inside is a tiny treasure trove of goodies: a whole orange, two mini chocolate bars, a tube of chapstick, and three cigarettes.

“Stephen, you—”

Jon tells himself that he’s not going to cry. He’s not going to cry. Just because Stephen must have been planning and stealing and doing who knows what for weeks to get any of these things does not mean he’s going to cry.

“That handkerchief doubles as a tissue, you know,” Stephen says gently.

And Jon realizes he’s crying anyway.

Stephen wraps his arms around Jon and holds him tight. Jon’s arms come up to wrap around Stephen’s middle. This close to Jon, Stephen dares a kiss at the corner of Jon’s mouth.

“I love you, Jon. Happy birthday.”

“I love you too, Stephen.”

They sit like that, listening to the birds sing and mice scurry over the leaves outside their tent, until they notice that the sky is getting even lighter. Jon pulls away first, even though Stephen doesn’t want him to.

“We’d better get moving,” Jon says.

He quickly packs up his presents and begins lacing up his boots. Stephen does the same, and together they take down the tent and fold up the poles. Since it’s Jon’s birthday, Stephen volunteers to carry the tent. He stops just long enough to say a prayer for their protection and for their loved ones and for their missing friends.

Stephen opens his eyes, and this time, it’s Jon watching him. It awakens the butterflies in his stomach.

“Ready?” Jon asks, map in hand.

“Why I'd follow you just about anywhere, Jon Stewart.”

Jon smiles and takes his hand, and they go off into the trees.


End file.
